


if e're we move the mountain

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Flower Language, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Thorin Oakenshield Lives, big of heart dumb of ass, it's my fanfiction and i get to eliminate the homophobia, the shire is healing, there are two hobbits inside you: one is your baggins half the other is your took half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: An excerpt from A Guide to Shire Flora by Bilbo Baggins, collected by Frodo Baggins:The Mile’s End is a rare flower found only in the four farthings of the Shire.  While no one is certain when it was first recorded, it can be found in Hobbit art and embroidery patterns going back at least 500 years.  The peculiar thing about mile’s ends is that they only bloom when in the presence of true love or rather, soul mates.  In Hobbit culture, therefore, it is mainly used during wedding ceremonies.  They are of particular importance to weddings between two brides or two grooms, for both relationship and flower are seen as precious and symbolic of Hobbit love for community and family in all forms.Etymology: the name “mile’s end” is most likely derived from the Sindarin loth, meaning flower; mîl, meaning love; and henia, meaning understand.  What originally was mîlothenia, became milothen and eventually milen.  From there, Shire accent turned it into two separate Westron words: mile’s end.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 47
Kudos: 237





	if e're we move the mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theroyalsavage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroyalsavage/gifts).



> for shea, my dearest friend, for her 23rd birthday. if i loved you less, i might be able to speak of it more.

_If e're we could move that mountain from between thee and me,  
_ _where would be lament or reason to grieve?  
_ _How remove the hollow from the tree, or shore from the sea?  
_ _What left would there be?  
  
_ _What if e’re the beam lost its moon.  
_ _Or lovely Autumn raiment lost its tree? What then would it be?  
_ _Can one sow the seed without the land?  
_ _Would this be what Powers planned?_

 _The grief, the longing, oh, the heartfelt gaze,  
_ _The strife, the loneliness, but a soulful phase.  
_ _A mountain surmountable, a hollow fulfilled,  
_ _A sea able to be, a beam again spilled._

 _A stage again for raiment, a fertile valley for seed.  
_ _Our love could not be boundless without the bonds of these._

_—Obstacles, Robert A. Dufresne_

* * *

_An excerpt from A Guide to Shire Flora by Bilbo Baggins, collected by Frodo Baggins:_

_The Mile’s End is a rare flower found only in the four farthings of the Shire. While no one is certain when it was first recorded, it can be found in Hobbit art and embroidery patterns dating back at least 500 years. Resembling a peony, the mile’s end has a head with many petals that are ridged at the end. The head itself can grow quite large, as much as five inches across which makes them particularly useful for the making and wearing of flower crowns. The stem is woody yet smooth with no thorns. Its leaves are smooth, waxy, and stiff that come to a sharp point. There is only one known colour—iridescent—like pearls. In the correct conditions, the petals may almost appear see-through or translucent. A well-cared for bush may contain up to ten blossoms at a time._

_The peculiar thing about mile’s ends, however, is that they only bloom when in the presence of true love. If a bachelor or bachelorette plants them in their garden, they will not see the beautiful flowers until they bring home their beloved. In Hobbit culture, therefore, it is mainly used during wedding ceremonies. A bride will have at least one in her crown; a groom will wear one in his hair. They are also of particular importance to weddings between two brides or two grooms, for both relationship and flower are seen as precious and symbolic of Hobbit love for community and family in all forms._

_Etymology: the name “mile’s end” is most likely derived from the Sindarin_ loth _, meaning flower;_ mîl _, meaning love; and_ henia _, meaning understand. What originally was_ mîlothenia _, became_ milothen _and eventually_ milen _. From there, Shire accent turned it into two separate Westron words: mile’s end._

* * *

“What do you call this one?”

The question is asked from a garden. To be more exact, the garden which Bilbo’s kitchen overlooks and is tended to by Hamfast Gamgee. Closest to the house are rows of lavender and aster; peonies and marigolds. Further back are raised beds of climbing tomatoes, far-reaching strawberries, and sweet-hanging aubergines. Even further on, towards the line where Bag End’s property ends and the neighbours’ begins, is a two-seater swing, carved by his Uncle Hildigrim as a wedding gift for his mother, upon which purpled wisteria twines as a safe haven for buzzing bees and butterflies. While Bilbo has been most content to let the Gamgees work their particular brand of magic, he does attend to a singular bush near the center of it all. The flowers that it holds have sturdy stems and many-petaled heads that appear pearlescent, almost translucent, in the streaming sunlight. 

And that plant in particular is that which the question regards. 

From his position in the kitchen, washing up dishes from lunch, Bilbo sees Thorin eying the flowers curiously, gentling over the petals. From the open kitchen window comes a breeze, carrying with it warm, fizzy garden scent. It blouses Thorin’s dark hair, beads clattering. Bilbo’s stomach twists.

“Oh those,” he says, daring his voice not to tremble, “they’re mile’s ends. They’re rare, you know. Only grow in the Shire. They were my mother’s favourite.” 

“Only here?” Thorin says. There’s soil in his nail beds, as Hamfast has been tentatively teaching him the basics of gardening. In return, because Thorin would never accept otherwise, Thorin has set about retooling the man’s equipment with finer craftsmanship than even the most well-known smithy in Hobbiton could attempt. A makeshift forge has found its way into a far corner of Bag End’s land where Thorin works. Some of the more interested lads and lasses have harangued their way into Thorin’s tutelage. Though he says it’s the need for wood-choppers, more often than not when Bilbo brings fresh water and snacks, Thorin is directing the young Hobbits in the ways of metal-smithing with a faint look of pride when one displays her first teakettle. 

Bilbo steps outside, says, “As far as I know. I’ve read many books on flora and herbs of the Shire, and all the records say it never grows anywhere else but here.”

Thorin nods faintly. 

“Are you coming inside?” Bilbo asks. 

“I can. Would you rather take a walk with me?” Thorin says, moving closer to the house. 

“Yes, sure. Sounds lovely,” Bilbo says, smiling. They set off for a long loop around town, stopping to chat with neighbours who are only just beginning to warm up to a dwarf in their midst, purchase a hearty loaf of bread from the bakery, and by the time they return to Bag End, the sun is just beginning to dip in the sky—it’s nearly summertime, when the days stretch so very endlessly long. The hall clock chimes half past seven, and together he and Thorin make their supper, bumping shoulders, passing knives back and forth, pouring glasses of crisp pale ale.

At night, they sit outfront and watch the stars, smoking on their pipes. Neither speak—rarely do they talk about anything of consequence—and Bilbo can’t help but feel it’s because there’s simply too much to talk about, to work through. It’s far easier for both of them to pretend that this is how their lives have always been. Even if the silence itches beneath Bilbo’s skin. 

Several months have they lived together in Bag-End since the end of their quest, be it ill-fated or not in either of their minds. Each day passing tolerably in quiet as they fall into routine. He always meant to ask Thorin how he felt, passing his birthright on to Dáin and his nephews, but those first few weeks on their return from Erebor were painful for the both of them. Thorin, for recovering from his sickness both physical and mental, and Bilbo, for the leaving of his found friends and want of home. 

Thorin retires to his room early, for tomorrow he and his squires, as Bilbo is fond of calling them, are working on a shipment of rakes and scythes for the Tooks. Bilbo instead finishes up some tailoring and darning thinking about the mile’s ends because while all of what he said to Thorin was true, he did not tell Thorin that the flowers hadn’t bloomed at all since the day his mother passed. Nor did he tell Thorin of the particular meaning of what those flowers blooming _now_ meant. He stabbed particularly viciously at his trousers with needle and thread, wishing to shove away the churning feeling in his gut.   
  


His mother always said that the greatest things happened during Midsummer, when all the world was abloom, vibrant. Some Eldar magic, perhaps, she’d say as she chased Bilbo through the thicket of woods on the edge of Bag-End. Then, as she’d caught him ‘round the middle, she’d say that summer promised all things. His father would scoff, placing Bilbo on his shoulders for the walk back, say that it was autumn when possibility was greatest, for it was a time of magnificent change and colour. Then Belladonna would kiss them both, tuck a daisy behind each of their ears, and promise to make biscuits the next day.

Tending to his parlor, Bilbo dusts off the twin portraits of his parents. Beneath them is the fireplace, which has since collected portraits of Dís and Fíli and Kíli. He dusts those off too, careful not to disturb the various trinkets and tokens Thorin arranged between them. Two are tiny knives—the first ever smithed by Fíli and Kíli; another is a ring made by Dís for Thorin’s coming of age. Things of home, Bilbo has many. He’s measured his life in matters of home: distance to or from, people in chairs and feet warmed by hearths, meals taken with boisterous laughter. Comfort finds him in counting stitches as he knits, chatting with neighbours over fences, books read by candlelight.

But Thorin has none of these, or at least, not many. For much of his life, Thorin had no home, and that once was, was full of ghosts and fire. His people could only save so much, forced to wander for decades. Thorin, Bilbo came to realize, measured his life in work. He counted his days in hours by the forge, in tons of steel folded and beat into shape, in hours spent in council that determined his people’s next steps. The knowledge makes Bilbo ache, deep in his heart. 

So Bilbo feeds Thorin Hobbit-hearty meals, sews him soft linen shirts, lets him settle into the Shire at his own pace. They wash dishes side by side, stroll through the Sunday market, smoke their pipes in silence. Bilbo has home in spades, and if Bilbo can give Thorin even an ounce of it, it still wouldn’t be payment in kind for Thorin giving Bilbo a lust for life again. 

Even if Bag-End remains cool despite the heat, humidity creeps beneath his collar. Bringing a pitcher of water out to the forge, the tweens greet him happily, showing off their projects. Thorin eyes him from the sidelines, not pausing as he beats a pitchfork into being. Beneath his leather apron, he wears one of those linen shirts Bilbo sewed him, sleeves rolled up and near see-through from sweat. 

“Will you be at the Midsummer party, Mister Bilbo?” says Sorrela, after downing two glasses in a row.

“Not this year, dear. I’m taking Thorin to visit my family at Brandy Hall for Midsummer.” 

_Oohs_ and _aahs_ fill the air alongside questions like _just how big is Brandy Hall?_ and _is it true that they lock their doors at night?_ To which he answers, _exceptionally big, over 100 windows_ and _yes, because they live so close to the Old Forest, it’s to keep the wild things out._

Thorin, finished with the pitchfork, sets it aside to join their group. Evidently he has judged them ahead of schedule enough that a break is in order. Either that or the heat is getting to him as well, not that he would admit it. Settling in the shade beneath a leafy oak, the tweens inform Thorin of all Midsummer activities from the Maypole dance to kissing games played long after adults are well into their cups. 

Nahand, who Bilbo taught to read and has a fondness for history, says, “I bet it could rival even _dwarf_ parties, Master Thorin!” 

Raising an eyebrow, Thorin says, “How would you have a point of reference for comparison, young one? I’ll have you know some dwarven celebration go on for days.” 

The squires find this nonsense and say as such. But Thorin shakes his head, says, “For Durin’s Day in my youth, our celebrations began at sunset the day before and did not stop until sunset the day after. Days of music, dancing, feasting. Competitions of strength and skill—axe tossing or sword fighting. Displays of art: tapestries weaved with gold, paintings made of crushed lapis lazuli, sculptures crafted of fine bronze. I hardly dared sleep in case I missed any of the excitement.”

Bilbo pictures a child Thorin, eyes drooping as he rests against his father’s chest, willing them to stay open so he may see the end to the tourney just as Bilbo would beg his mother for just one more story. 

“Perhaps soon enough, Erebor will be rebuilt enough for us to celebrate Durin’s Day there,” Bilbo says. 

“Soon indeed,” Thorin replies. 

“Oh, Mister Bilbo! Your mile’s ends, they’re _blooming_ !” says Sorrela suddenly, her eyes darting back and forth between him and Thorin and the garden beyond. Bilbo feels himself flush, begins to tell her to hush, when she continues, “That means— oh. Oh, never mind.” The poor lass bites her lip, seeming as embarrassed as Bilbo at her sudden realization. She’s the eldest of the lot after all; Bilbo suspects _she’s_ suspected something for a long while now. 

But Theo, just barely into his tweens, not yet developed a sense of tact, says, “You’ve met your soulmate, then! Who are they?” Sorrela shoves him.

Thorin’s stare burns him as Bilbo stutters, coming up with some excuse that _they've always bloomed this time of year for my mother, she loved Midsummer see_. Thankfully, that seems to placate them all, and Thorin ushers them back into the forge. Bilbo holes up in his study for the remainder of the afternoon, tying himself up in knots.

 _Was_ he in love with Thorin? If so, when had he fallen in love, exactly? A rough question with an elusive answer. There had been Ginelle, his first kissing friend as a tween who had the most beautiful smile that stood out against her dark skin, and hair like clouds. They would lay together in the sun, sharing kisses and stories, and Bilbo could picture making a family with her. After her came keen-eyed Walaric, with his kisses that stole Bilbo’s breath and penchant for pulling Bilbo in to dance. Walaric made Bilbo want to run off into the far-off East in search of adventure. 

The mile’s ends hadn’t bloomed for either of them which somehow made the hurting worse when they inevitably split. He cried into his mother’s shoulders as she soothed him. She said _just think, Bilbo dear, how lovely the sight those flowers will be when the right one finally comes._ But then his father died, and then his mother, and then the mile’s ends stopped blooming entirely. 

When he came of age, the kissing friends stopped. Even though he had several suitors after, courted on and off, eventually the offers slowed. The world seemed a bit dimmer. Somewhere along the line, he resigned himself to the fact that maybe there wasn’t a soulmate for him. Maybe it was at Hamfast and Bell’s wedding, where Bell had miles’s ends in her flower crown, and Hamfast one in his hair. Afterwards, there was always a patch growing outside Bagshot Row. But Bilbo would never get to see those mile’s ends bloom for him.

Then Gandalf came along, forcibly dragged him out the door (Bilbo still wouldn’t admit that it was a half-truth) to trail after a pack of Dwarves. Bit by bit, as ferns unfurl and petals splay, each of them drew Bilbo out, reshaped him like molten metal. Falling asleep to their snores, sword training on leisurely evenings, pipes shared, tales told. He wasn’t the same Hobbit who’d fallen in love with Ginelle beneath willow trees, or Walaric, sneaking late-night kisses behind the Green Dragon. And Thorin wasn’t the same dwarf who trundled through Bag-End’s door that first night, unyielding yet bending beneath his burdens. 

Thorin, when getting lost in his thoughts, spoke once of a metal made by smelting together two others. What resulted was a sword far stronger than either of the two on their own. Perhaps, just _perhaps_ , both he and Thorin had been reforged into something far stronger than they were alone. 

His hands tremble.

A knock sounds at the door. Thorin enters, having washed and changed. 

“Are you hungry? I’ve got mushroom stew made.” 

“Sounds amazing, actually.” Anything to be tossed out of his own head, really. 

The stew _is_ amazing, tastes exactly like—

“Where did you get the recipe?” Bilbo asks, shaky.

Thorin stares down at his bowl, “I found a box of them in your cupboard. I apologize if—” He gets up and brings the box to him. The card is his mother’s spindly handwriting. “I apologize if I intruded.” 

“ _No_ , Thorin. You haven’t.” He touches Thorin’s hand. “It’s exactly how my mother used to make it. I haven’t been able to bring myself to make it for, well, a very long time now. But there’s many happy memories with it, and I’m glad to share it with you.”

“For my people,” Thorin says, “food is one of the things we were able to save completely. Many of the greybeard’s have recipes committed to memory, so we brought them with us. What I ate as a child was what my grandfather did, and his before him. What you ate with us on the quest, were recipes handed down through generations. I believe it’s time I learn of the Hobbits’ ways.”

After dinner, they settle down with their pipes outside. However, instead of letting the silence fall heavy, Bilbo, emboldened by some unnameable force, says, “What was it like, growing up in Erebor?” 

Thorin looks surprised, but begins telling Bilbo of vaulted halls and glittering floors; of cups overrunning and poems sung. Occasionally, Thorin slips into Khuzdul which he translates dutifully. For the most part, Bilbo listens. Thorin’s voice washes over him; he leans against Thorin’s side.

Contentment sighs inside his chest. The bright call of a mourning dove.

Midsummer’s Day, always Bilbo’s favourite holiday after Yule, is one of many colours and much joy. As it is Thorin’s first Midsummer, they journey to Brandy Hall where Saradoc and Esmerelda are hosting the grandest celebration they can muster, for their spring harvest was plentiful and profitable, and Hobbits are always seeking a way to celebrate. So grand it is, they can hear it before rounding the bend to Buck Hill. 

With a conspiratorial look, Bilbo says, “That would be the Tooks, I imagine.” 

Thorin raises an eyebrow, “Are these the Hobbits whose festivals could ‘rival any dwarven party’? Because I’m not going to be easily impressed simply because they’re your family.” 

“Oh what, just because Hobbits don’t come unannounced into _your_ home and eat all _your_ food, suddenly great and mighty Thorin Oakenshield isn’t easily impressed? 

They banter back and forth until Esmerelda, holding young Merry on her hip, meets them at Brandy Hall’s gated entrance. She places a smacking kiss on Bilbo’s cheek, pats Thorin’s. 

“Glad you could make it dears,” she says. Flowers have been woven in her curls, piled high on her head, and she smells like fresh baked honey cakes. “Would you mind Merry, please? I’m needed in the kitchens.” Promptly, she deposits Merry into Bilbo’s arms and runs off to oversee kitchen happenings. 

In his arms, Merry coos. Bilbo tickles him beneath his chin, absently, and says, “There’s cider and wine over there, Thorin, if you could grab us some.” In the distance, he spies several cousins anxiously waving him over, calling out his name and jibes of _can’t believe ‘ole Bilbo made it out of that smial of his!_ He doesn’t notice, not at first at least, the manner in which Thorin looks at him—gentle, and if it were anyone else, besotted. Bilbo swallows, turns his gaze to the ground, nods when Thorin says _of course, see to your family_. 

As he’s laughing with Paladin and Eglantine, Thorin makes his way to where they’re seated beneath a maple tree, covered in coloured garland and young hobbits climbing. For many, tree climbing remains the greatest of all adventures a young pre-tween can undertake. He curls his toes into the sweet clover beneath them, shoos away a fat bumblebee seeking a flower. Close by, the band picks up with a jaunty tune that he remembers from many a summer’s party in his younger years. 

From the corner of his eye, Bilbo spies Thorin fidgeting with his drink. Thorin’s often quiet, never one to mince words or say ten when five will suffice, and now is no exception, allowing Bilbo to catch up with his favourite relatives after the long, and arduous, process of tracking down his belongings and getting himself declared not-dead. 

During a lull in the conversation, when Paladin and Eglantine settle a fight between Pearl and Everard, Bilbo turns to Thorin and says, “Would you like to hold Merry?” 

Thorin startles, “Would Lady Esmerelda allow it?”

“ _Lady_ Esmerelda,” Bilbo laughs, “she would swoon if she heard you call her that. And yes, of course. She knows I trust you with my life, let alone my newest cousin. Here—” he sets Merry in the crook of Thorin’s arm, bare in the summertime heat. His skin is criss-crossed with scars from battle and forge. Paladin begs off to join his uncles who’ve started lighting the bonfire. 

“So delicate,” Thorin just about whispers as Merry grasps at Thorin’s offered finger, brings it to his mouth to suckle. Bilbo tickles Merry’s foot, still baby-sensitive, not yet toughened, hidden beneath a healthy bit of fur. 

“Do all hobbit young have such thick fur?”

“No, depends on the baby. Some have barely a wisp, others are like Merry here, nearly looking like a full-grown adult.” Merry giggles as Bilbo begins wiggling each toe. Bilbo presses up against Thorin’s side to reach. “There’s a little rhyme we sing, though I can’t remember the whole thing, about counting each toe to ensure none have run off. Eglantine, can you remember any of that one?”

Eglantine doesn’t say anything, so Bilbo turns to ask her again, struck dumb at the knowing look in her eye as she looks at them. 

She says, “Aye, my Pimpernel likes to hear that one. _Round and round the bend they go, feet to carry to and fro. So little lefty says to mighty righty, ‘How many toes there be, why, five at least for me!’_ ”

Swallowing, Bilbo continues, “ _And so we count: one— two— three— four— five—”_ With each number, he wiggles a toe. 

“ _B_ _ut mighty righty, not be left out, bellows with a great big shout: ‘See here at mine, and you shall find five all fine!’”_

Once more, Bilbo counts, this time on Merry’s right foot, who wriggles in Thorin’s arms, joyous baby laughter mingling with the other cheery voices and music. 

“It’s been so long since my nephews were small enough to be held like this,” Thorin says, “though I remember the first time I held each of them. I did not think I missed it.” 

“Nephews?” asks Eglantine. 

“Fíli and Kíli, of my sister Dís. They remained in Erebor, while I journeyed here with Bilbo.” 

“Do they share your likeness?”

“Kíli does. Both my sister and I are dark of hair and so is he. Fíli takes after his father with golden hair, which is quite rare among dwarves.” Pride colours his voice, a tone Bilbo hasn’t heard in many months, at the talk of his nephews whom he loves so dearly. dwarven bonds of kin, Bilbo knows, he will never be able to fully understand. 

“If they are as fair as yourself, then it would be truly a sight to behold,” Eglantine says, making Bilbo choke on his drink. She smiles, cheeky, and pats his hand. Bilbo curses every Tookish sensibility she’s taken on. 

Thorin at least has the grace to give her a thanks. The three sit, passing little Merry around between glasses of cider and wine, watching as the sun sinks low, twilight bringing out pinpricks of stars, twinkling lanterns, and flickering lightning bugs. Esmerelda gathers all the tweens around the maypole, assigning bits of ribbon, and instructing the band to play. One by one, they begin dancing in grand circles to the beat, with a great deal of twirling skirts and tumbling curls and stamping feet. It’s _beautiful_ , he thinks. With a quick glance to see Thorin entranced, he is immensely grateful that Thorin is sitting here beside him to see it. The sight is enough to bring him to tears, which he surreptitiously swipes at, careful so as not to jostle Merry, who dozes against his breast. 

Thorin says, low, “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo says, “it’s just. This is my favourite holiday, and I can’t help but remember when I did the maypole dance. How many years ago was that, Eglantine? Must’ve been at least over twenty by now.” 

She laughs, “Are you certain you’d like to reminisce over our tween years, dear? You forget I have as many stories to tell as you, even if they lack dragons and mortal peril.” 

Bilbo blanches, which only sets Eglantine off more, holding her stomach. Thorin has turned his attention to them, one eyebrow raised. 

Just as Bilbo begins to say, “ _No_. No, no, actually. We don’t need to remember—” Thorin cuts him off to say, “No, Lady Eglantine, go on.”

With a wicked grin, she says, “There was that time we found you and Samson Barrowes in the pantry. Or the Great Kissing Game We Agreed Never to Be Spoken Of Again where you and Rhoddie Cotton got stuck—”

“Okay!” he interupts, ears warm. “You’ve made your point. Thank you, love.”

“Yes, thank you for this _enlightening_ information,” Thorin says, tipping his head.

She pats his knee, “If you want any more, pop on over to Tookborough for tea anytime.” 

The song and dance winds to an end, with the tweens tumbling over themselves, heading back for more drinks and food or pulling in sweethearts to dance. Esmerelda bounces over, light on her feet, and Bilbo hands back Merry, already missing his weight and warmth. 

Esmerelda asks, “He didn’t give you no trouble did he?”

“Not at all, my lady,” Thorin says while Esmerelda titters and blushes at the title. 

“Thank you for watching him. Now, go on enjoy yourselves, you hear? Don’t let me catch you sitting down again tonight.” 

Before bounding off to find her husband, Eglantine kisses both their cheeks. As the night grows darker, Bilbo takes Thorin around, has him meet relations and dunk for apples, which he does faster than anybody. Saradoc’s set out his finest summer ales and sweet white wines, which Bilbo cajoles Thorin into tasting (and enjoying, though Thorin would sooner cut off his beard than admit to liking anything less than the darkest of red wine). A lightness bubbles over inside him. Perhaps this is the closest he’s felt to something normal in over a year. It makes him rather bold, which is dangerous considering the amount of alcohol he’s been drinking. 

Standing beneath a canopy, Bilbo and Thorin share snippets of their tale to Erebor and back to a rapt audience of Bucklebury locals until Bilbo catches the first strains of one of his favourite songs. Various hobbits already gather in a circle in front of the band, linking hands. Perhaps it’s the wine or the company or both, but Bilbo grabs hold of Thorin’s arm and says, “Dance with me” as he tugs him into the throng.

Startled, Thorin stumbles before catching himself, jaw working with what Bilbo has come to understand as nervousness.

“I don’t know the steps,” Thorin mumbles, studying the footwork of Bilbo and his cousins. 

“Don’t worry!” he says, “just follow with me.” Their hands join, then link up with the bigger group, forming a circle. Bouncing, jovial the group turns in circles before breaking into pairs. From there, they swing and pull; dip and press, then reform the circle. Chest heaving with exertion, Bilbo tosses his head back with a laugh, curls flying. After a few turns, Thorin seems to get the hang of it, teasing edge of a smile emerging beneath his beard. It sets Bilbo’s heart racing faster than it already beats. When the song ends, there are claps to shoulders and cheers echoing about the hills and fields. In the far-off distance, other bonfires can be seen, carrying one of the oldest Hobbit traditions ever onward. 

As the night dwindles down and folks return to their own smials, Bilbo and Thorin are shown to Brandy Hall’s guest quarters and left in a cozy room with two beds covered in heirloom quilts made by grandparents long gone. Bilbo immediately flops back onto his bed, not bothering to unbutton his waistcoat or remove his braces. Candlelight flickers about the room, rather dark with the shutters closed, casting Thorin’s face into deep relief. Bilbo itches for ink and paper to draw it, to somehow put down forever the sight of him peaceful and loose in the joints, carelines on his face worn smooth. Without such instruments, he settles for observing as Thorin changes into his sleeping shift, washes off the heat of the day with the small pitcher and cloth set aside for them. 

Thorin seems to notice his staring and turns. “Have I got something on me?” he says. 

“No,” Bilbo says, and at first he thinks he should leave it at that, but he’s wine drunk and stuck on the blooming flower in his garden and caught in the sight of Thorin holding little Merry all afternoon, so before he can stop himself, he says, “Thank you.”

Thorin, now settling back against the headboard of his own bed, says, “What for?”

Bilbo stretches, long and languid like a cat, begins to pull off unnecessary garments for sleep. Down the hall, voices murmur for kisses goodnight. Satisfied enough in his trousers and shirtsleeves (and too tired to make the final switch to a shift), he tucks himself beneath the covers. The silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Perhaps several thousand miles ago, it would have been. But several thousand miles ago, they were both different people: Thorin jagged and weighed down, Bilbo timid and turned inward. 

“For this whole—” he waves a hand to mean _all this_ . “For enjoying yourself. _Allowing_ yourself to enjoy tonight.” His tongue twists inside his mouth, finding difficulty in enunciating well.

Very quiet, Thorin says, “You did say it was your favourite holiday, after Yule, anyway.” 

_Oh_ , Bilbo thinks stupidly, _he remembered_ . How long has it been since anyone’s remembered one of his favourite things? How long has it been since anyone’s _cared_ enough to remember? Suddenly his eyes feel too wet, and he’s certain he’s too drunk. 

“Yes, well. Thank you. Next time, we shall have to celebrate a dwarven holiday. Or your favourite. Whichever comes first.” 

Thorin laughs with his whole chest. It sounds of warm hearths, glinting gold coins, tinkling beads. “Of course, Master Hobbit. Although, that means we’ll have to invite my sister and nephews as well. Do you think Hobbiton can manage more than one dwarf at a time?” 

“Well, we managed it once. You did say you had to ask for directions _twice_ that first time though. However you managed to get lost, I’ll never know—”

“I’m not having this argument again, Bilbo. Hobbit roads make no good sense. I’ve half a mind to speak to the Mayor about your city planning.” 

“You _shall not_ ,” Bilbo says, rising to the bait even though there’s no heat in Thorin’s voice, “no friend of mine will be a disturber of the peace, even if he is a dwarf. Just because our roads aren’t all lines and angles like yours doesn’t mean they’re poor quality.” 

Thorin doesn’t say anything back, just looks at him fondly which makes his heart flutter again. 

“Good night,” Thorin says, reaching to snuff out the candles. 

“Good night,” Bilbo echoes, and sleep comes swift and deep. 

The next morning, Bilbo wanders Brandy Hall’s magnificent library. In one hand, he balances his first cup of tea and a scone; the other, a deep tome containing Elvish poetry. He knows that in the far west corner, sits the softest leather armchair and sturdiest desk in the Shire, and he intends to spend most of the morning curled up before he and Thorin return to Bag-End. He’s stopped, however, by a mess of black curls in said chair. 

“Frodo?” he says, setting his cup and books down on the desk. The boy has a picture book spread on his lap, sounding out consonants. 

Frodo looks up at him, smiles wide, “Uncle Bilbo! I didn’t know you were spending the night.” The boy tosses aside the book which lands with a thud—Bilbo winces—and throws his arms around Bilbo’s middle. 

“How are you, lad?” he asks, smoothing down those still baby-fine curls. 

But the question makes Frodo stiffen, retreat back into himself. “Oh, I’m fine,” he says, face withdrawn. 

He’s not sure what he said to make Frodo so sad, but he tries again. “What were you reading there? Would you like me to read to you?” 

Frodo sniffs, “I’m not a baby anymore, you know. Aunt Esmerelda has me reading to the little ones all the time.” 

“Oh, does she now? Well then, perhaps you’d like to read to me? I’ll share my scone.” 

And so Frodo let’s Bilbo sit, tucking himself beneath Bilbo’s arm and continues reading about an elven queen who fought a dragon only to befriend the creature in the end. They’re both so engrossed in the story, that neither realize the hours passing by until Saradoc calls, “Frodo, are you in here?” 

Once more, Frodo’s face falls. “Yes Uncle Saradoc. I’m with Uncle Bilbo, in the good chair.” 

After a few moments, Saradoc appears. “There you two are, you’ve just about missed luncheon. Bilbo, didn’t you say you wanted to leave by now?” 

“Yes, yes. Thank you. I’m sure Thorin’s anxious to leave.” He gathers up his belongings, and takes Frodo’s hand as they trail behind Saradoc. 

“Well, if you can tear him away from the ladies. He’s been showing them the proper way to polish silver for an hour now, if you can believe it.” 

“You won’t believe how much I can.” 

In the parlor is Thorin flitting between several of Bilbo’s cousins and aunts, instructing them on different polish types, circles versus swipes, and how to remove tarnish and rust. 

Frodo tugs on his hand. Bilbo leans down. 

“Is that your dwarf?” Frodo whispers. 

Bilbo stifles a laugh, “Yes. His name’s Thorin. We met when I went away on my adventure.”

Frodo’s eyes are very, very wide. “Are you sure you can’t stay any longer?” 

This time Bilbo does laugh. “I’m afraid so. Thorin has to work on making new farming tools for Hobbiton before the harvest, but you’re welcome to come by to Bag-End whenever you’d like.”

Saradoc clears his throat, “Actually Bilbo, would you mind if we spoke for a moment alone?” 

Nodding, he follows Saradoc into his office. 

“Did you hear about Primula and Drogo?” Saradoc says. 

Bilbo’s stomach drops; of _course_ that was what had Frodo all in a stir. 

“I’m afraid so. Esmerelda wrote me a letter, but I was so caught up with trying to get my affairs in order that I didn’t have time to properly, well.” He trails off. Saradoc hugs him. “Poor dears,” he finishes. Automatically, he remembers how not so very long ago, Thorin lay near dying. 

Saradoc nods grimly, “Old Rory’s been caring for him, you see, but with him being Master, he just doesn’t have the time to care for Frodo as well as he needs. And Esmie and I with little Merry and all, well, what would you say to Frodo coming to stay with you for a while? Even just a month or so. Maybe you could help him feel less out of sorts.” 

Bilbo can still sense Frodo’s hand in his own, and doesn’t think before saying, “I’ll have to speak with Thorin, but I don’t see why not. Perhaps at the start of Harvest?” 

“That would be perfect,” Saradoc says. “Why don’t you write us when you’ve got the matter settled?” 

“I will. Don’t worry.” 

After many kisses goodbye, food stuffed into their hands, and a final hug for Frodo, they return to Bag-End by nightfall. 

As Harvest approaches, Bilbo’s uncertain whether he or Thorin is more excited for Frodo’s visit. They both have been flitting about cleaning or making purchases of food for the pantry. While Bilbo races to finish a sweater for Frodo, Thorin labours in his forge for ages. They even resort to taking most of their meals at separate hours, only settling down together for their nightly smoke. Warm September air turns crisp as October draws ever nearer. Long reaching maple trees burn scarlet; drooping willows and fan-shaped gingkos burnish golden. Above, the sky remains starkly blue with only a few cottony clouds. 

The night before Frodo’s arrival, Thorin manages to corral him into a walk, which are ambling and filled with more stories ever since Midsummer. An old, wooden bridge, once painted red that now flakes, straddles a slow moving brook on their route. There, they pause. Thorin’s hands fiddle with a pocket on his coat.

He clears his throat. “I have made something, for Frodo,” he says. Pulling out a delicate necklace, he holds it aloft. The design is simple: a bundle of spring flowers with a mile’s end at the center. All of the petals are laid with gemstones of varying colours, yet the mile’s end sparkles in particular. Upon closer inspection, Bilbo notices that the petals are opal.

Bilbo gasps, holds it gingerly in the palm of his hand.

“Oh, Thorin,” he breathes, “it’s beautiful. I didn’t know you could do this kind of metalsmithing. Frodo’s sure to love it.” 

“I must admit it’s not my finest work. My skills lie more in weapons and arms, but when I was wandering, I was sometimes commissioned to make jewelry. I really was inspired by your garden, those mile’s ends in particular. Even if it isn’t a typical dwarven motif, I know they’re important to you.” Thorin’s voice is thick. “I also have something for you as well. For your birthday, in a few days.” He produces a pocket watch, decorated with Dwarvish line work—all angles and geometry—and set with a sapphire. On the inside, an inscription reads ‘ _to BB | from TO_.’ 

Though Thorin’s face is unreadable, his eyes, blue as the night sky, betray vulnerability, anxiety.

Bilbo’s throat is tight. The watch sits in Thorin’s hand. Trembling, Bilbo covers it with his own. Thorin sucks in a breath, and for a moment, neither speak. The watch tick, tick, ticks ever onward—the only reminder that time hasn’t stopped, that the world continues whirling around them. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo says. How he manages to say it as steadily as he does, he’ll never know. “Thank you. It’s wonderful. I’d say the finest thing I’ve ever owned.” 

“Even more than your mother’s dishes?” And how _Thorin_ can make a jest in this moment, Bilbo is even more lost. 

“Absolutely, because you _made_ this for me. That makes it very precious.”

Their hands still touch. Rather than removing his, Bilbo draws Thorin’s forward. 

“Won’t you pin it for me?”

Thorin’s eyes bounce between Bilbo’s eyes and their hands. Slowly, cautiously, Thorin fastens it to Bilbo’s weskit, slipping it into the pocket. 

Should he dare breathe? Is the setting sun stealing all the air from his lungs or is the weight of Thorin’s gaze pressing it out? 

Neither speak the entire length back. They alternate between tea and their pipes before retiring early. 

Frodo arrives the next day with much to-do. Saradoc hands the boy off after luncheon, begs off with the excuse of needing to visit others in Hobbiton, with a kiss to Frodo’s forehead and warning to be good. 

Frodo nods, already wandering Bag-End’s library, sat beside Thorin who looks simultaneously lost and hopeful. 

Bilbo shows Saradoc to the door, and Saradoc says, “I was gonna wish you good luck, but it seems you’ll manage just fine.” 

From behind them, Frodo’s laugh echoes just after Thorin’s rumble. Bilbo’s heart unknots. 

“Yes, I suppose we’ll manage just fine.”

They spend the rest of the day letting Frodo explore the smial, run about the gardens, and make conversations with the neighbours. For dinner, Thorin makes the mushroom stew again, to Frodo’s delight. 

“They’re my favourite,” he says around a mouthful of bread. His feet carelessly brush the floor as they swing to and fro. “I used to get in trouble for taking ‘em from the farmer’s, but it’s not like they’re ever going to use them all.”

That makes Thorin laugh heartily. He turns to Bilbo to whisper, “Aye, sure enough didn’t Fíli and Kíli use that one whenever they got caught taking swords and bows from the armoury. It took five of us to wrangle them.” 

Bilbo laughs too at the image. Frodo looks at them like grown up humour is unfathomable and really, why does he even bother? But they all three clean up, and afterward, take turns reading stories by the fire until Frodo’s eyes droop more and more with less and less time in between until his head is pillowed on Bilbo’s thigh. Thorin carries him to the room they cleaned up specially for him. 

Before going to bed, Bilbo finds them standing together in the kitchen. 

“Your birthday’s tomorrow, right?” Thorin asks.

“Actually, both of ours,” Bilbo says. “Frodo and I share a birthday.”

“Is it customary to make a cake?”

Bilbo leans against the counter while Thorin sits at the table, tracing whorls in the wood. 

“Yes, but I don’t mind something small. Just the three of us. We can make the cake with Frodo tomorrow. Maybe take him for a picnic. You can give him your gift then, although I must tell you Thorin—” Thorin looks up in alarm; Bilbo’s lips quirk up, “It’s the Hobbit custom to _give_ away gifts on your birthday rather than receive them. Frodo won’t know what to do with himself.” 

Thorin sputters, “Should I wait to give it to him then?” 

“No, no don’t worry your kingly head about it. I’ve got gifts for the both of you. I just wanted to warn you that Frodo _may_ cry. Don’t be upset by it.” 

His own hand slips into his pocket where the watch sits. Thumb tracing over the sapphire, he thinks about Thorin’s gift he has stowed away in his wardrobe. He walks over to Thorin, reaches out to the end of one of his plaits. He doesn’t touch, merely resting a scant inch away, says, “Is it your custom to receive beads from others?”

Thorin nods, “It’s considered a very intimate gift. Between family or brothers in arms or lovers. All of mine are gifts from others.”

Biblo hums, “Who gave you this one, then?”

“My father, after my first successful hunt. I brought down a stag with a single stroke—very merciful and takes a skilled hand. The runes translate, roughly, to just and mercy, held together by the shaking hands of an oath.”

“Well,” Bilbo says, “I hope tomorrow can be just as memorable.” 

They walk to their respective rooms. Before they part, Thorin places a hand on his shoulder, says, “All these days are memorable with you, I’m learning,” then disappears into his room leaving Bilbo stupefied with his head swimming.

Frodo barely reaches the counter, so Bilbo has him perched on a wooden stool. They make the cake in the morning, Frodo filling in the silence with cheerful talking, and pack a basket of cheeses and cured meats, cherry tomatoes and strawberries, apples fresh picked and bread just baked while waiting for it to cool. Having Frodo here in Bag-End soothes a little wound in Bilbo’s heart, something he never acknowledged before. The frosting makes a mess of them—Bilbo swipes a glob on Frodo’s upturned nose, the lad goes cross-eyed—but when Thorin arrives from delivering new tools around town, they have a veritable feast spread. No matter how both of them are covered in flour. 

A long, winding path through the forest follows a creek of unknown origin that opens into a grassy meadow. Bilbo thought himself very clever for discovering it as a boy, running off with a book for hours. And now he gets to share it with two of his favourite people. The day couldn’t be more lovely: warm but not hot, breezy but not windy. Frodo skips ahead of them with only the occasional glance back to ensure he’s not lost the way. When they reach the clearing, Frodo gasps a little, and Bilbo must admit that it’s just as beautiful as when he first happened upon it. 

It clear skies for leagues above them, lush green grass below. Trees of all heights and kinds cover them in a circle, protective. Marigolds and sweet alyssum and cornflowers flutter and weave like gems at the bottom of a river. Thorin would like the comparison, Bilbo thinks. They pass a few hours in their secluded spot, even going so far as to kick around a ball with Frodo who eventually grows bored of them and darts off to catch frogs. 

While he’s gone, Thorin says, “All my life I’ve spent in preparation, always moving. A princeling training to rule, a king wandering in exile, a leader planning for a quest to retake a city. There never was time to be idle. I was afraid if I did stop, that everyone who relied on me would—” he trails off, but Bilbo can fill the gaps. “But being here with you is teaching me the virtues of slowness. That simplicity is not idleness.” After refilling their cups, he raises his in a toast. “So thank you, Bilbo. And happy birthday.” 

Bilbo swallows past the lump in his throat to raise his glass as well. Frodo returns to them, a little muddier than before but no less worse for wear. On their walk back, Bilbo spies a patch of solidagos. Plucking a sprig, he tucks it behind Thorin’s ear who looks baffled. 

“They mean ‘to strengthen’ or make whole,” Bilbo mutters, embarrassed. In front of them, Frodo giggles. Bilbo ignores him. 

“Hobbits tell stories with flowers,” Bilbo says. “Nearly all of them have some sort of meaning, so you can send entire letters in a single bouquet.” 

Thorin doesn’t comment further. Settling in for the evening with tea and blankets, Frodo bounces between them anxiously waiting to give gifts. 

“Alright, alright my lad! Settle down, here, I’ll give you yours first,” Bilbo says. Frodo sits cross-legged on the floor, back to the fireplace with tea half-drunk forgotten at his side. At least that particular Baggins trait carries on. He hands Frodo his gift wrapped in parchment which Frodo tears into eagerly. 

Mouth forming a perfect “o,” he pulls out a sweater of deep juniper, elaborately knitted with stitches of honeycomb, basket, and cable. Frodo brings it to his cheek, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, for the yarn Biblo made it with is exceptionally soft. 

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo breathes. He stands to throw his arms around Bilbo who kisses the top of Frodo’s head.

“You’re welcome. Now, would you like to give yours away?”

Frodo nods, retrieving two packages, one flat and wide, the other small and thick. Bilbo gets the flat, Thorin the thick. 

Frodo bites his lip, looking up at Thorin shy. “I hope you like them.”

Thorin ever-so-carefully peels back the parchment, revealing a book of Dwarvish poetry translated into Westron. His brows knit, and, Bilbo thinks, his eyes go a little wet. 

“It’s wonderful, Frodo,” Thorin manages, ruffling Frodo’s hair. 

“Now you,” Frodo says to Bilbo after beaming up at Thorin. 

Bilbo’s is a beautiful map of the North of Middle Earth, right down to Elvish kingdoms and the newly rebuilt Dale. 

“Oh, Frodo, it’s lovely.” He cups Frodo’s cheek, kisses his forehead. 

“Uncle Saradoc helped me find them,” he says.

“Uncle Saradoc is very good at gift giving.”

“You have one more to give away now!” Frodo points to the last gift at Bilbo’s side.

“Yes, yes, give me a moment.” His gift for Thorin is small, a tiny little box he painted with pinecones and acorns and twigs of pine. His hand shakes as he gives it to Thorin. 

Thorin’s quiet after he opens it. Bilbo rushes to fill in the gap, “I, I hope it’s not too untoward of me. I can take it back if it’s too much—”

Thorin holds up his hand, and now for certain there are tears in the corners of his eyes. 

“I don’t have words for how beautiful it is, Bilbo.” Gingerly, he holds one bead in his hand, emerald green with golden knotwork, traditional to Hobbits. Frodo, bless him, has gone silent. Either the tense atmosphere between them is so palpable he can feel it, or the lad is preternaturally impressionable. 

Thorin swiftly plaits his hair on either side of his temples, joining them in the back.

“It is traditional,” he says, quiet, “that the giver finish the plait and place the bead themself.”

“Of course.” Standing, Bilbo sidles up behind Thorin to finish the plait down the length of his hair. The strands, strong yet silken, move each way Bilbo places them. At the end, he fastens the bead into place, the gold shining bright against the black and silver of Thorin’s hair. “I’ve finished,” Bilbo whispers. 

Thorin exhales, then turns to Frodo and says, “In my culture, we give gifts to the person whose birthday it is, so I’ve made you a gift, little one.”

Frodo’s eyes go wide. Bilbo smothers a laugh. They somehow manage to go even wider when he pulls out the necklace Thorin made him.

“Is this really for me?” Frodo asks, lip trembling just as Bilbo predicted.

But Thorin is ready for it, pulling Frodo close for one of Thorin’s rare hugs. Frodo’s arms are too small to fit all the way around Thorin’s barrel chest, but he gives it a valiant try. 

When they’re finished, Bilbo tucks Frodo into bed. “I hope it was a good birthday, my lad,” he says. 

“The best I’ve ever had,” Frodo says, reaching up for one more kiss goodnight. 

With a smile, Bilbo snuffs out the candle. Thorin’s gone to bed, but Bilbo’s still too wound up to settle down quite yet. He sits out back, staring at the moon and garden and the damn mile’s ends twinkling in the moon shine. Puffing on his pipe, he blows a steady stream before heaving a great sigh. Part of him wishes Gandalf were here. Not that Gandalf gives particularly good or understandable advice, but somehow the old wizard always knows the right thing to say to steady nerves. But Gandalf comes and goes as he is want to do and most likely won’t be around until Yule.

Instead, Bilbo walks around the garden. The kale and root vegetables are sprouting, ready to be harvested just before first frost, comes to a stop in front of the mile’s ends. Their silence seeming to mock his situation. 

“This is all your fault,” he says to them. “I should’ve uprooted you years ago. If I wasn’t sure my mother would haunt me for the rest of my life if I did.” 

The flowers say nothing in return. 

“Because our life here was fine. We were getting somewhere. And I don’t know— well, it’s been a long time. A very long time.”

The truth his, that Bilbo doesn’t know what he’s doing nor how to guide it. Whatever he feels budding between Thorin and he is far different than fumbling with kissing friends. Far more delicate and precious and hinged on a knife’s edge. 

What had his father said? _“I feel forever about your mother, and she does me. That’s why the mile’s ends have never rotted.”_

Bilbo imagines them back on the cliff, where Thorin saved him from toppling over, and thinks, _I suppose I may feel forever about him_. The realization is not as frightening as anticipated. In fact, it rather feels like coming home after a long day. But, a great big But,does Thorin—could Thorin—feel forever in return? Bilbo always assumed that Thorin’s stay in the Shire was temporary. That one day, when he deemed himself healed enough, he would return to the place of his birth to be with his kin. However, with new, sinkling clarity, he wonders if that place is too full of ghosts? Is Thorin haunted by carven halls and years gone and dragon fire? 

Thinking is hurting his head and talking to flowers at night will further hurt his reputation as odd. He slips into bed hoping tomorrow for a clearer head. 

Frodo wakes him the next day clear eyed and grinning. He’s already had breakfast, made by Thorin who rises with the sun, won’t Bilbo join him for second breakfast? Bilbo does after donning his robe. He fries them eggs and bacon with cherry tomatoes and spicy tea from Elrond. By the time they’re finished up, Bilbo spies Hamfast rounding the hill with tools. Daisy follows him with a notepad. A rush of pride fills his chest remembering teaching the girl her letters and numbers alongside her elder brothers, and now here she is helping father keep track of crop yields. 

Bilbo shoves the shutters open to wave. 

Frodo, half leaning out of it, calls, “Morning Daisy!” 

Hamfast smiles at them while Daisy returns, “Morning Frodo!” 

“Can I go out to help?” Frodo asks. 

“Why don’t you get dressed first? I’m sure Hamfast can find something useful for you,” says Bilbo.

After dressing, they go out to greet the two although Hamfast is deeply involved in the laying of fertilizer and watering. 

“Are your brothers home, Daisy?” Bilbo asks.

“No, sir,” she says. “They’re both visiting our uncle in Northfarthing. ‘S why I’m helping Da’ with the notes. But little Sam’s here with May and Ma’.” She ties her shawl tighter around her neck as a cool wind picks up. The pattern is the Gamgee family’s blue and green tartan, resembling many in Hobbiton. 

Hamfast ambles over to them, puffing a bit with exertion. 

“How do you do, Master Bilbo?” he says. 

“Just fine, Hamfast, thank you. Especially now that Frodo’s here.” Frodo’s smile is beatific. “How are you and Bell? I know she mentioned Sam was still colicy.”

Hamfast takes the notes from Daisy, shoos her and Frodo away who take off for the swing. “Ah, we’re doing as well as you can. Poor little thing’s getting better, but it just breaks your heart to ‘em cry, ‘specially if there’s nothing to be done about it.” There’s an awkward pause as he clears his throat. “Master Bilbo, I’ve been wanting to mention, and pardon me if if I’m stepping out of place here, but I noticed a while ago your mile’s ends over yonder. How are you and your, uh, Master Thorin?” And _how_ Bilbo appreciates Hamfast’s frankness and practicality. 

The tips of Bilbo’s ears turn pink. He looks askance. 

“Truth be told, Hamfast, I’m not sure. Have you ever heard of the mile’s ends flowering for a one-sided love?”

Hamfast looks taken aback, near stricken, and Bilbo would laugh if the question wasn’t earnest. “Never, sir,” he says. “Never in my life. And, begging your pardon, if you think that dwarf doesn’t love you back, then you’re more a fool Took than any of us ever thought, even after you went gallivanting off on an adventure.” 

This time, Bilbo does laugh. Out of sheer nerves or relief, he can’t say. 

Wrapping his arms around himself, he says, “It’s just. It’s been a very long time, you know. I didn’t think I ever would find someone. How did you know Bell loved you back?”

“Well, see. We had been courtin’ for a while, and I knew I loved her during Yule when we were sitting by the hearth, and I was holding her in my arms. I just had this thought: _I want every night to feel like this._ So the very next day I went and brought her a cyclamen and told her I loved her. 

“While we planned the wedding, we got to talking about this very thing. I asked her how she knew she loved me, and she said it was because whenever she looked at my hands, she thought they were good for building a home.” 

“That’s how I feel about him,” Bilbo admits, rubbing his jaw. “But I don’t know if he feels the same.”

“I suppose all you can do is ask. But if you ask me, them mile’s ends are proof enough.” 

They’re interrupted by Frodo and Daisy’s mutual exclaims of shock. The pair have managed to rock the swing high enough to catapult it up and over, sending them off into the dirt. 

“That’s what we get for leaving them alone,” Hamfast says. “You two, over here!”

Twin guilty looks are shared as they walk back. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t break that swing or yourselves,” Bilbo scolds without his heart in it. (After all, he did the same thing as a child.) 

“Sorry, Master Bilbo,” Daisy says. “Won’t happen again.”

“Sorry, Uncle,” Frodo says as well. 

“Yes, yes very well, no harm done. Hamfast, do you have anything Frodo could help with today? Put these two to some useful work.” 

With a grin, Hamfast says, “‘Course, sir. Plenty to do. I’ll have him back before supper. Come along you two.” 

While Bilbo rights the swing, he thinks on the previous conversation. Struck with a plan, he takes off for Thorin’s forge. 

Inside, Thorin and his squires are hard at work repairing ploughs, yokes, and scythes. Bursting in, Bilbo says all in a rush, “Thorin, when’s Durin’s Day this year?”

Thorin blinks at him, “Why do you need to know?”

“Why must there be a reason? I’m interested, I asked. Can’t you just tell me?”

With a heavy _twack_ , Thorin pounds out a kink in a scythe. “Am I obliged to give away all my people’s secrets simply because of a passing curiosity?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bilbo says, “Spirits save me you stubborn dwarf.”

The tweens laugh. 

“Now you sound like Gandalf, and I’m less keen than ever to tell you.” Thorin’s taken to leaning on his hammer, propped on the work anvil, flashes Bilbo a wry smile. “It will fall on the 31st of October by your people’s reckoning this year.” 

Panting still from the sprint, Bilbo says, “Quite right. Thank you. I’ll be off now.”

Thorin tips his head, returns to his scythe. The tweens exchange a Look and do the same. 

Back in the house, Bilbo holes up in his study, pulling every book he has on Dwarves and dwarf culture. Lastly, he pulls out an address book, neatens a pile of parchment, and begins his letters. 

A reply arrives far more quickly than anticipated, handed to Bilbo early one morning precisely a fortnight later. Two letters, one on creamy paper, with the Mayor’s seal informing him his request to plan the Harvest festival this year was approved. Bilbo’s certain the mayor’s still attempting to make amends for the legally-declared dead situation, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The other, on stone grey parchment, has handwriting unfamiliar, a formal script rather than Kíli’s scrawl or Fíli’s blocky letters. 

_Dear Master B. Baggins,_

_My sons received your letter and passed it on to me, for I am far more well-versed in the traditions of our people than they. We’ve not had the pleasure of meeting in person, but I’ve heard so much about you that it feels as though I’ve known you all my life. I am Dís, Queen Mother of Erebor and Thorin’s brother. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, &ct. _

_You inquired about the traditions of Durin’s Day, one of our most cherished holidays. I have long studied the histories of our peoples, and so consider myself and considered to be a foremost expert on the subject. After receiving wisdom from Gandalf on the customs of your own good people, I’ve come to realize that Durin’s Day celebrations are not too far off from that of your Harvest celebrations in the end of October._

_The rest of my letter as follows details the customs and affairs of a traditional Durin’s Day celebration. However, if I am to understand the correct nature of your inquiry, I ask of you in return, if the presence of myself and my two sons would be welcome in your home for festivities come 31 of October. While initially we were planning to host a celebration here, we are in dire need of Thorin’s company. If you permit us, Dáin will host alone (to which he has already agreed)._

  
Bilbo marvels at Dís’s open fondness towards him despite their never having been introduced properly. She is, after all, Thorin’s sister. A former crown princess and Queen Mother in her own right. Quickly penning his reply, he marches over to the Postmaster to send it off. When he returns, he continues his work with the party planning. There’s food and drink to be purchased and imported, decorations to be set, invitations to be written. It’s all a little overwhelming, but Bilbo bubbles over with energy. Frodo eventually joins him in the study, bringing with him glasses of apple cider, the first of the season, and a book. 

Wrapped up in their work as they are, it’s Thorin who tugs them out into the world, for Sorrela invited them to her smial for supper. Thorin’s grown rather fond of the lass, unable to say no to her dimples and smithy work. She’s gotten quite good at making blades and jewelry decorated with Hobbit knotwork. Sorrela’s too old to want to play with Frodo but he and her younger brother Garivald take to each other. 

While eating, Bilbo announces he’s been chosen to plan the Harvest party this year. _Yes, yes of course you’ll receive an invitation_ , he assures, _I’ll send them out this weekend_ . When? they ask, pouring him an extra glass of wine in thanks. _Oh, end of October. The 31st perhaps._

Thorin’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch but says nothing. Frodo and Garivald beg for a story, so Bilbo tells them of Rivendell while Sorrela and Thorin show off her handiwork to her parents. 

Once they’re home, Thorin says, “I didn’t know you were planning a party this year.”

Cringing, Bilbo says, “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise, for the both of you. Besides, I have the money for it.”

Thorin hums, adds a log to the fire in the parlor. Eventually, he says, “Is it similar to the Midsummer?” 

They sit next to one another on the sofa, Bilbo curling his feet beneath him. 

“Only in that there’ll be lots of wine and food.” He grins. “Harvest has different music and decorations and games. I’ve hosted it on my land for years out there,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the Party Tree, “but usually the Mayor plans it. You’re not cross are you?”

“Of course not,” says Thorin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. “In fact, I’m quite excited. I hope we’ll be able to do more than babysit at this one though.” 

Bilbo laughs, “The little ones will have plenty to occupy themselves, I promise you.” After a beat, he says, “Perhaps you and the tweens would like to have a little display of your craftsmanship? There’s always competitions for best pie or jam and things like that with enormous displays. Why shouldn’t you all get to show off your hard work?” 

Thorin swallows, Bilbo follows the bob of the apple of his throat. 

“Yes, I would like that,” Thorin says. _I_ he says. Not _they_ or _we._

“I may have to take back your watch though,” Thorin chuckles, “just long enough to show it off for the night. It’s the finest thing I’ve made in some time.” 

“I think I can spare it, but only for the night.” 

In the fireplace, a knot of pine pops, then fizzles. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin says. Hesitant, like the word is pried out. “I’ve been thinking.”

Dread, or something akin to it, slips slimy and dark in Bilbo’s stomach. Instinct tells him to close his eyes, to flee. Turn away and cover his ears and hope that what’s happening isn’t real if he ceases to acknowledge it. Bilbo does none of this but chews on his lip, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. 

“Somedays, I feel like I’ve imposed on your hospitality too much. Foolish, I know, because you’ve had no hesitations telling me when I’m not wanted before. You’ve given me so much, continue to give me so much. The forge and a bed and food and company. It’s kindness that I didn’t think ever came without a cost. At first, I thought maybe it was out of pity—poor fallen Thorin, the failed king.” Thorin gazes at him, eyes wet. 

“I’ve never once thought of you like that,” Bilbo breathes, “you must know.” 

“I do. I thought perhaps I’m not worthy of this kindness, I must earn it. But you’re not interested in payment in kind. I’ve come to learn that’s not the Hobbit way. The people here bring you bread or strawberries from their garden simply because they care for you or you’re their neighbour. And so what I mean with all this, is to ask if you’ll allow me to stay here with you. I don’t need to go back to Erebor. My feet have found the stone they like best, and it’s the cobbles of the Shire.” 

_Oh_. 

Bilbo says, near whispering, “Thorin, this is your home. I will have you as long as you’ll have me. As long as we can stand each other.”

Thorin hugs him, nearly pulling Bilbo into his lap. Bilbo dares not bring up the hot drip of tears he feels against his collar where Thorin’s face rests. Bilbo buries his own in the crook of Thorin’s neck. Thorin smells of woodsmoke and Bilbo’s soap, and it’s all he can manage not to cry. 

Word gets around the Shire in approximately three days before Bilbo’s even had a chance to send out invitations. Folks stop by at least once a day to inquire about displays of crops and crafts: Amber Brownlock and her pottery, Fastred Goodchild and their hand carved pipes. Each day settles into a routine of games with Frodo, lunch with Thorin and the squires, planning and letter writing, supper with the three of them, reading altogether in the evening, then their nightly smoke. Thorin walks more at ease since his confession. A looseness to his step, ease in his manner. More quick to smile, to speak with neighbours. Bilbo wonders if this is how it would have been to meet Thorin as a young prince, gallivanting around Erebor. 

Meanwhile, the Shire positively blooms around them. If the Shire is sparkling in summer, it is _radiant_ in autumn. Trees populating rolling hills flush into brilliant hues. Chestnuts, sycamores with reaching limbs come in lush yellows; Aspens, even golder still. The oaks, crimson dressed with wide, fat leaves. Maples a-flush in scarlet, dripping with sap to be boiled to syrup; black tupelos purple, yellow, orange. They carve coves over roads, carpeting cobblestone and warm, packed dirt. Lanterns hung from branch and fence, chimneys puffing away. Hay bale rolls punctuating fields, and pumpkins carved all around. No stepping outside without the sweet scent of pie and cider, nor crisp air and cedar pine. Everywhere is the sound of rustling leaves, merry chatter, bubbling hearths. 

A week before the party, he and Frodo returning from their visit to the fabric store, hands swinging, come across what must be Fíli and Kíli, lost once more. Their caravan, obviously of dwarven make, is loaded down with bags and trunks. The two harangue old Elbruf Hornfoot for directions, despite his insistence that _Bag End, I assure you, is only half a mile away. You need only go round the bend and up the hill to the left, just past the old millhouse._

From atop a pony, comes a soothing, regal voice, “Boys, it's fine. We shall find the way. Thank you sir.” It can only be Dís.

“Fíli! Kíli!” Bilbo calls. Tugging Frodo along, he runs after them. The two turn with smiles so very bright and joyful. 

“Bilbo!” they say in unison, enveloping him in a hug, Frodo tangled in their legs. 

“I’m so happy to see you,” says Bilbo, curling a hand around each of their cheeks. “I’ve missed the sound of your laughs.” 

“As have we,” Fíli says. He bears the crown well, shining bright. 

“I’ve been lost without you,” Kíli says. He looks equally as fair, wearing an Elven circlet. Bilbo smiles at the sight of it.

“This is my nephew, Frodo,” Bilbo says. “He’s staying with us for the time.”

If possible for dwarves to do so, Fíli and Kíli melt at the sight. 

“Hullo,” Frodo says, which turns to a laugh when Fíli swings him up high to sit on his shoulder. 

“Might we introduce you to our mother,” Kíli says, taking Bilbo’s arm. “Mother, this is Bilbo Baggins, our Burglar.” 

Dís is beautiful: Kíli’s dark hair but Fíli’s fey eyes. There’s Thorin’s nose with a countenance of grace. Her beard is full, richly decorated with beads and braids and strands of gold. Her hair is made of elaborate plaits and dotted pearls. Sumptuous is her gown of aubergine. Bilbo lacks the words to properly greet her, so instead he bows his head. 

Dís favours him with a smile, “I’m glad to finally put face to name, Master Baggins. And hello to you as well, Master Frodo. We’re a bit lost, care to show us the rest of the way to your home?”

Bilbo, regaining mastery of his tongue, says, “Of course, my lady.”

“Please, call me Dís.” 

They kick the caravan into motion.

“Just so you all know, I haven’t told Thorin you’re coming. It’s a surprise.”

The three dwarves share a conspiratorial look.

“It’s alright, Bilbo. In truth, we didn’t wait for your reply before leaving. We were going to surprise the both of you,” Fíli says. 

“We’ve been on the road since September,” Kíli says. “How do you think mother’s letter got to you so soon?”

They laugh and catch up all the way to Bag End. Thorin stands, awestruck, by the front door.

“Uncle!” Fíli and Kíli say, Kíli running up and pulling him into his arms. Fíli sets Frodo down first before doing the same. 

After helping Dís dismount, he and Frodo allow the four their hellos, in warm, rolling Khuzdul. Thorin meets his eyes over Dís’s shoulder, wonderment in his blue, blue eyes.

Frodo, tugging on his weskit: “What are they saying?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s the Dwarven language, very secret. Maybe one day Thorin will teach you or I, but I wouldn’t count on it.” 

Moving their belongings inside requires a great deal of effort while attracting a great deal of attention—neighbours poking their heads out of windows, staring at the addition of three more dwarves to Hobbiton. 

“Your house is so lovely, Bilbo,” Dís says. Her hand lingers on the carved beams, toes curling into the plush rug. “It truly feels like a _home_ , lived in.” He follows her eyes to where they watch Thorin showing Fíli and Kíli the tools and smithwork he’s set aside for display. 

“I’ve had a little help making it so,” Bilbo replies. 

He makes them tea, sets it out on his best dishware along with bread, cheese, and meats. After, he takes Frodo with him to the yard where decorations are being set up to let Thorin and his family talk. Standing beneath the party tree, he takes a deep breath, feeling the entirety of his lungs expand and contract. Bell Gamgee and her friends to the side artfully arrange chrysanthemums and greenery on tables. Others string up pillowy canopies over the stage to his right. 

In the distance, the mile’s ends twinkle. _Yes, yes I see you_ , Bilbo thinks, spitefully. (But not unkindly either.)

After he’s put Frodo to bed and Fíli and Kíli are asleep themselves, Thorin and Dís remain deep in conversation long into the night. Low, heads bowed, hands resting together. Bilbo feels like an intruder in his own home, standing at the threshold of the parlor. The two speak in Khuzdul which Bilbo’s never heard so much of at once before. Rhythmic, a call and response. Dís and Thorin bandy back and forth like a work song, phrases rolling into one another with r’s curled in the throat. 

In the low light, he sees Dís hand Thorin something—too small to to rightly see what. She kisses his brow. That’s when Thorin sees him wringing his hands. 

“Excuse me,” Thorin says. Thorin stands and leaves, nodding at Bilbo.

“Come over, Bilbo,” Dís says. “Won’t you sit and talk with me. I wish to know the mind of the one who managed to get my brother to lay down the crown.”

Bilbo, taking the spot Thorin just left, says, “I didn’t want to intrude.

“Thank you. We had a lot to speak over. I must apologize, for I didn’t make the journey here for entirely selfless reasons. I’m curious about you.” Keen eyes peer at him. They’re blue, but a different shade than Thorin’s. While Thorin’s are that endless night pin pricked with stars, Dís’s are hard and glinting: obsidian mirrors. “What happened on the Lonely Mountain?” 

The question steals all the breath from him. He stares helplessly into the fire. When he does, he is reminded of dragon’s eyes and dragon’s flames; never ending piles of gold and long empty halls. Thorin sinister, paranoid, lost somewhere Bilbo could not follow him. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to ask him?”

“I already have, and he has said his piece—that it was you that broke the sickness. That you saved him.”

His heart turns violently inside his chest. “ _Me?_ ”

“Your voice was the loudest, that which drowned out all else.” She says this as if the revelation is simple and not one of the most profound things he’s ever heard.

He closes his eyes, swipes a hand over his face. “He never told me that.”

“It’s not in our nature to. Our people have found that Westron lacks the language to convey the depth of our emotions. It’s better to demonstrate with action in its place.” She pauses. Tilts her head. “You’ve grown your hair out. I noticed your people don’t keep long hair like the dwarves, but you—” she twines of his curls around her finger, and Bilbo’s breath hitches because he hadn’t noticed really, when it grew to his collarbones. He didn’t bother to cut it during the journey there or back nor in all the months he’s been home. She releases it, the ringlet bouncing loose into place. 

He plucks at a loose thread in his trousers. “I think,” he began. Stopped. Swallowed back tears he felt prickling his eyes. “I think that we saved each other. I was only going through the motions of my life before it all. He brought out in me a light I thought had been extinguished with my mother. And if what he said to you is true, then I suppose that I saved him from the dragon sickness.”

“You saved him from the weight of his own misery and self-imposed burden of responsibility, Bilbo Baggins. You saved him from more than just the sickness. Do not sell your or his affections so short.”

They both are quiet after that for some time. The fire burns low, near to ash. 

“Speak to him,” Dís says. “During the celebration.”

“I was already planning to.” 

She touches his hand. “Good,” she says then retires for the night.

In the days leading up to festivities, Bilbo and Thorin and Frodo spend long, lingering days with Thorin’s family. They wander about Hobbiton, speaking with neighbours and friends, and sharing stories. Kíli takes it upon himself to teach little Frodo to loose an arrow while the rest of them watch on, laughing into mugs of mulled wine. And if Bilbo thought Thorin more at peace in the past months, he is positively _tender_ with his kin—quicker to smile, reminisce, share fond touches. Even once they journey to Tookborough, and while on the long walk back home, Thorin holds Frodo, fast asleep with face smushed against shoulder, the whole way. Dís takes to winding an arm through Bilbo’s while they walk. 

Yet even as Bilbo knows, with utmost certainty, that he is _happy_ , fear seeps like frost in his belly. Fear that what he intends to say come the 31st will, with reckless abandon, tear apart this home they’ve built together. (When had he come to think of it as _their_ home? Was it when he first realized he knew exactly how Thorin preferred his tea, or when Bilbo started purchasing books for the both of them? Maybe when they were doing laundry together, or when Bilbo began coming home to dinner on the table after seeing to Bag End’s needs? A thousand fragmented moments coming together—a kaleidoscope—forming a mosaic.) 

Then Thorin leans down, whispers, “I’ll lay Frodo down if you wish to pour everyone some wine,” and Bilbo warms all over from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet. Perhaps it’s the Tookish side winning, but he knows that the reward surely is worth the risk.

As per tradition, Durin’s day begins at sundown on the 30th of October. Sat in his parlor, Thorin reads from an ancient book with parchment so thin one can see light through them. Bilbo thinks it’s a prayer though he cannot know for certain because the words are in Khuzdul. Dís sets up a series of candles in two circles, one inside the other, on the table they’re all seated around. Frodo sits on his knee.

Fíli, in his ear, says, “Uncle’s reading the history of our people, from creation to now. The seven white candles are lit in honour of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves; the six red for their companions, save Durin himself who was laid to rest alone. They must remain lit until sunrise tomorrow.” 

Nodding, Bilbo rests back in his chair, Frodo leaning into his chest. As Thorin’s story reaches the end, Kíli sets out a small leather pouch, bottle of oil, and loaf of braided bread. He begins cutting slices with a solemnity so unlike his usual bubbly nature. 

“Now,” Dís says in Westron, “tonight we fast in honour of Mahal: of his ability to create, of his repentance, of his just, and of his mercy. This bread is plaited that we too may ponder the fabric of the word as he did, for without him, all the materials we use to build would not exist. We dip it in oil to remember our blood that has been spilt in our years wandering and in memory of the lives we have lost. Lastly, we salt it, with rock from Erebor, to remember that we are people of the earth and will return to the rock.” She looks to Kíli, “Kíli, if you would.” 

Thorin, however, places a hand on Kíli’s hand, “It’s tradition for the youngest to pass around the bread. Would you be terribly upset, nephew, if we had Frodo do it this year?”

Kíli looks at him, a twinkle in his eyes, crows, “Oh _ho_ , finally the youngest no longer! Frodo, come!” 

Frodo, wide eyed, sits dumbly in Bilbo’s lap for a moment until Bilbo ushers him down. Kíli waves him over to his side, murmuring instructions as to how much oil each piece gets and how best to sprinkle the salt. Of course, children are exempt from the fast, but they’re still permitted to eat the bread. Once they’ve all eaten their slice, they sit together and watch the candles burn while Thorin reads more from his book. That night, each of them take turns getting up to ensure they still burn.

Bilbo is the one who wakes at sunrise, pattering into the parlor to finally snuff them out. He says a prayer to Mahal, as instructed, in Westron rather than Khuzdul which Fíli assured him did not matter (though the lad had a bit of smirk, hinting that perhaps it was time Bilbo did learn a few phrases). Gathering the plate to scrape off the wax to be repoured, he begins making breakfast. Today is _his_ day, and Bilbo intends to show his Dwarves a proper Hobbit spread. 

Just as he finishes the bacon, Frodo wanders in, bleary eyed but dressed in the sweater Bilbo knitted for him. 

“Could you help me get this on?” he asks, holding out Thorin’s necklace.

“Of course, come here my lad,” he says, kneeling behind Frodo. 

The clasp is a fiddly bit of metalsmithing. No wonder Frodo’s clumsy fingers couldn’t get it on. 

Frodo turns, hugs him. Bilbo smooths his hair down, busses the crown of his head.

“I wish I could stay here for longer than harvest. Will you send me back to Brandy Hall for Yule?” Frodo says, wobbly.

Bilbo starts. He’d been so caught up in untangling the threads of his relationship with Thorin, he’d forgotten that he’d only promised Saradoc he’d have Frodo for the autumn. But Frodo’s living with him at Bag End feels so natural, like the lad’s been here his whole life. From his laughter ricocheting around the halls, to the muddy footprints he tracks in from playing in the gardens; the ease at which Bilbo took to planning meals for three, to putting Frodo to bed before he and Thorin take their nightly smoke. It’s wholeness, and it’s _family_.

“No,” he says. It comes out choked. Clearing his throat, he continues, “No, no. Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’m going to write to Uncle Saradoc and have you stay here with us for as long as you’d like. If that’s what you want.”

Frodo promptly bursts into happy tears, and all Bilbo can do is pull the lad into his arms and rock him back and forth right there on the kitchen floor. 

He fixes Frodo warm apple cider when the others wander in, drawn by the scent of bacon and spices. Thorin’s eyes flicker to the necklace before darting up to Bilbo. Thorin’s hands flex: stretching out long and tense, then curling into fists. For a moment, Bilbo thinks Thorin’s going to do— _something_ —but he just picks up Frodo from his perch on the counter, holds him on his hip. 

They eat. Bilbo explains what to anticipate for the night. He has to oversee last minute details, but they all agree to help. For that, he is eternally grateful because their extra bit of height allows them to better string up lanterns and tents while the extra smidge of strength means they’re in charge of hauling kegs around. It’s simply the perfect weather as well, he notices, bluest skies with puffs of clouds. Cool but not yet frigid. Come midday, they all sit together around the firepit, soon to be a great bonfire, and eat. The other Hobbits are eager to hear from the Dwarves, of lands so much different than their own little Hobbiton, which Fíli, Kíli, and Dís are only too happy to indulge. Bilbo marvels at the change in this town since Thorin’s arrival: yes, many find him strange still, but even more want to welcome new faces, especially one as noble—and useful—as Thorin.

While Frodo’s off with the other children carving pumpkins and turnips, Bilbo instructs in the setting up of displays. One by one, the whole of Hobbiton makes their way to the Party Tree with arms full of jams and pickles and quilts for judging, pies and pasties and smoked cheeses for eating, zucchinis and cauliflower and pumpkins for display. Thorin and his squires arrange tea kettles, knives, tools, and jewelry. Bilbo offers up the pocket watch as the centerpiece where the sapphire sparkles. He already hears the breaths of wonderment, haggling with Thorin for commissions. 

Bilbo changes into his best weskit and trousers. When the sun begins to set, the lanterns are lit and the band begins to play. Tables heaped with food, bottles uncorked, glasses filled. 

The mayor, from up on stage, says, “Welcome, friends old and new, to our annual harvest festival!” Glasses are tipped towards the Dwarves who raise theirs in return. “Thank you to all the hands who helped put it together this year: every last one of you! From the ones who worked the fields to those who built this stage, for we are a community that depends on each other. And special thanks should be given to Mister Baggins, who even after leaving us for a year, took it upon himself to lead the planning this year. So let us celebrate all we’ve achieved this year, and may we see many more to come!” The crowd erupts into cheers. 

After they quiet down, the mayor continues, “Remember, we will announce the winners of all our competitions at nine o’clock sharp! And the pie eating contest will be at seven, so don’t miss it!” Music resumes as the mayor’s helped down. Hamfast sweeps Bell up to kick off the dancing. Mothers oversee the apple bobbing. 

“You planned all this?” Thorin says while they pour themselves glasses of thick, dark ale. 

“I’d have thought by now you’d know that if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s party planning,” Bilbo says. “If only Gandalf were here with his fireworks.” 

“It seems to me that we have all the light we need.” He looks right at Bilbo whose heart stutters. 

“I’ve asked Frodo if he’d like to stay with us, permanently,” he blurts out.

Thorin only smiles and says, “I was wondering why you didn’t ask him any earlier.” 

And _really_ , language is far too unwieldy in his mouth because Thorin is too great a man for him, too kind and honourable.

Kíli interrupts them, dragging Bilbo off while saying, “Come, show us your people’s dances!” Kíli swirls him around the makeshift dance floor, and Bilbo forgets for a while about inadequacies. Kíli even shows him an Elven dance of the Woodland realm that Tauriel taught him with lush sweeps, flouncing hands. When Thorin’s squires spy him, they come running up, begging for dances which he obliges. Fíli throws an arm around him while Bilbo attempts to teach him a drinking song until they collapse in a heap, having tripped over one another’s feet. 

“Ah, Fíli,” he says through peals of laughter, “I hope this is a good enough feast for Durin’s Day.”

“Well, there’s no axe throwing or tourney, but it’s without a doubt the most fun feast I’ve ever been to.” Together they stumble to a table. 

Nibbling on cheese and meat, Fíli says, “And thank you, for taking care of Thorin.” Fíli holds his hand.

“Oh,” Bilbo says, “we take care of each other.”

“Aye, it’s the way of both our people.”

All around them are chatter, laughter, singing, dancing. Rightness tucks itself between his ribs. 

Bilbo sees Thorin on the edge of the crowd, leaning against his display. 

“Fíli, if you’ll excuse me. There’s one thing I need to attend to.”

Fíli follows his gaze and smiles. 

Walking over, their eyes meet: Thorin’s wonderfully, impossibly soft.

“Thorin, would you mind if I had a word?” Bilbo says. “Nothing’s wrong, just something I’ve been wanting to talk about.”

Thorin nods. Bilbo pulls him closer to the house, standing in the garden right beside the mile’s ends. 

He nervously fiddles with his hands, wishing he had his watch or ring to fumble with. Thorin gives him a look that plainly says _get on with it_.

With trembling hand, he grasps Thorin’s, and says, “Did I ever tell you the full meaning of the mile’s ends? You asked me about them back in springtime.”

“No, I don’t believe you did.”

He takes one heaving breath. “They only bloom in the presence of soulmates. They’re our symbol of true love. After my parents died, they faded, and no one I ever brought home revived them. I thought I would be fine, living alone in my little hole. I convinced myself I didn’t need them, I didn’t need adventure or companionship or family or any of it. That is, until you. You and your quest, _dragging_ me all over, fighting dragons, watching you almost die in my arms! You have changed me, in every possible way.

“And I don’t know if you could ever feel that way about me, if this is just all in my head, but the flowers, Thorin, they never lie. And I can’t go on not knowing.” His tone rises with each word.

The air between them is charged—the shock of a doorknob in winter. Thorin’s grip tightens to the point Bilbo wonders absently if it would shatter his knuckles.

His voice drops to a near-whisper, “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I— I love you. So, there.”

After Thorin swallows audibly, he crushes Bilbo against him. Bilbo buries his face in Thorin’s shirt, attempts to get his arms all the way ‘round Thorin’s barrel chest. 

A rumble rolls straight through Thorin into Bilbo, “I do. I have, for so long. I’m sorry I couldn’t say earlier, but it’s precisely because I feel so strongly that I never could find the right words to say.”

The words jolt, so much still hangs unsaid between them. Bilbo stumbles back, shoving Thorin away.

Ignoring Thorin’s hurt look, Bilbo says, “Thorin _, please_ ,” cursing the tears he feels hot behind his eyes, “I need you to tell me you love me.” 

But Thorin’s right there, pulling him back in, just as he did on the mountain. Just as he’s been pulling Bilbo away from the edge of oblivion since the day he first stepped foot in Bag End near two years ago.

And when Thorin says, “ _I’ve been trying._ What with all the holidays and that damned pocket watch and the soup! And you come along and give me a bead, and I told you that the stone of the Shire is what my feet like best, _Mahal—”_ it’s thick and strained and wrung out as the sentence dissolves into Kuzduhl. His hands do that flex again. 

Bilbo could laugh at the stupidity of how they must appear: a dwarf and hobbit standing before one another in a Shire garden while a dwarven-cum-hobbit harvest festival rages beyond them. Bilbo barefoot in his best gentlehobbit clothes, Thorin in muddy boots while his family teaches all of Hobbiton dwarven drinking games. Strains of music and laughter echo around the valley. If all of Hobbiton didn’t already think him strange and queer—if good for a drink or three, they surely would now.

“Bilbo,” Thorin tries again, cups Bilbo’s jaw, and kisses him. 

Bilbo thinks _oh_ , but also: _so this is how it’s supposed to feel_. 

Thorin moves to pull back, so laying one hand on Thorin’s cheek, the other tangling in his hair, Bilbo stands on tip-toes and kisses him. Fierce and heated: a kiss he knows his mother would cheer for. His body feels alight, his face wet, and he can’t tell if it’s his tears or Thorin’s or both. He finds he doesn’t mind because he licks his way into Thorin’s mouth to taste Shire-made wine and pipeweed. Thorin, he realizes, tastes like home. _Their_ home. _This_ one they’ve built together, filled with his books and Thorin’s tools and Frodo’s giggles. 

Pulling apart, they both gasp. 

“I— I love you,” Thorin croaks out. 

All Bilbo can do is nod, kiss him quiet again and again and _again_.   
  


They return to the party hand in hand, to Dís’s knowing smile.

Drunk on nothing but life, Bilbo tugs Thorin to the dance floor. He thinks of Midsummer, when he realized Thorin remembered little, mundane things about him, and curses his cowardice. Thorin’s laughing, head tossed back as Bilbo spins him around, much as his mother did to his father. (She’d proclaim herself _Belladonna Baggins, Queen of Bag End_ , sweep his father into a jig or waltz, dip him like a maid.) Just this once, he blesses Tookish sensibilities, and forgets himself.   
  


When Thorin’s kin leave (with a good deal of ado from Hobbiton all around) and quiet settles over Bag End once more, Bilbo finds himself fixing tea on a chill November afternoon. Gathered in the parlor is Thorin, Frodo snuggled up to his side. 

When he enters, Frodo ushers him over, “Thorin’s just getting started on the next story.” It’s a book of dwarven children’s tales, the very same that had been told to Thorin as a babe, then Fíli and Kíli. Dís gave it to Frodo as a parting gift. 

Handing out cups, he settles against Frodo, wraps an arm around the lad. Thorin twines their hands then continues the story. 

On the hearth just below the portrait of his parents, shining bright amongst Thorin’s trinkets and paintings, is a hand-painted vase. Inside of which, shines a single mile’s end.


End file.
